oh, the guilt
It’s all coming together. Or falling apart…I’m not really sure. More mistakes. More problems. More sleepless nights. I can’t seem to outrun my problems, so I’m trying to face them head on…but that doesn’t seem to work either. No matter what I try, I always seem to choose wrong. Left should be right. Yes should be no. Honesty should be silence. My big heart and big mouth continue to get me in trouble…embarrassing me and those poor unfortunates in my crosshairs. I don’t know when to give up…either too early, or far too late. Never right on time.
My insides are a twisted dog, cold and damp, tired and weak. I don’t even want to eat, everything makes me nauseous. I can’t even curl up in a ball and make it go away anymore. Even that hurts too much. And yet, somehow, I still seem to be under the impression that I have a purpose. That someone out there can use me, even if I can't find a use for myself. What I know, what I do, who I am…what I am...that's for someone else to show me. I’m too everything to have it left up to me. I’ve got to tone it down to get to the bottom…but how do you turn down your heart? Slow it down with drugs and alcohol? Keep it busy by running and jumping around all day…never giving it a moments rest? An idle heart is a man’s downfall I say. My downfall.
And I’m fed up with the women I seem to be attracted to. The ones I (cough) fall (cough) for. Fall indeed. Flat on my face. Another fresh wound to add to the collection. Another knife plunged into my chest…by her AND me. Mostly me. They try and stop me…and they’re usually gentle…but in the end, spilt blood is still spilt blood. And I’m running dangerously low. This time the pain is less. I guess I'm getting good at it.
I’ve been told I need to stop being such a pushover. A wimp. I need to stop being such a ‘nice’ guy…and start swinging an elbow or two. I’m angry, but its all wrong. I need to spread it out a little more evenly…and not bottle it up, only to unleash in a rush of fire and venom. But I never feel better afterwards. Just guilty. Angry at myself. And the cycle starts all over again. Either I’m too nice…or a jerk. I need to find the middle. The one every other guy seems to reside in. It’s a big fucking middle…yet I swing from one side to the other…like some emotional Tarzan. I need to be a man is what they're all saying...even if they don't. I can be man...but I don't think I'll like me.
Because there IS something wrong with me. I AM different. I know we’re all different…but I’m DIFFERENT different. Where’s my tribe? Where are my people? Or am I a one off? A failed prototype…destined to live out his existence on the fringe? A ghost in the distance. A rumour. An island. A little bit ugly, my aura can fill a room...but its got edges and breaks easily.
I can connect. I do. And its not all fake. And that’s what makes me think that I have a shot. But then it all falls down again. And it starts to feel hollow and damp and cold. And I’m left trying to shake it off…shivering. Involuntary convulsions in angry chains. And it wears me out.
Now worn out, can I put it all back together again?
My insides are a twisted dog, cold and damp, tired and weak. I don’t even want to eat, everything makes me nauseous. I can’t even curl up in a ball and make it go away anymore. Even that hurts too much. And yet, somehow, I still seem to be under the impression that I have a purpose. That someone out there can use me, even if I can't find a use for myself. What I know, what I do, who I am…what I am...that's for someone else to show me. I’m too everything to have it left up to me. I’ve got to tone it down to get to the bottom…but how do you turn down your heart? Slow it down with drugs and alcohol? Keep it busy by running and jumping around all day…never giving it a moments rest? An idle heart is a man’s downfall I say. My downfall.
And I’m fed up with the women I seem to be attracted to. The ones I (cough) fall (cough) for. Fall indeed. Flat on my face. Another fresh wound to add to the collection. Another knife plunged into my chest…by her AND me. Mostly me. They try and stop me…and they’re usually gentle…but in the end, spilt blood is still spilt blood. And I’m running dangerously low. This time the pain is less. I guess I'm getting good at it.
I’ve been told I need to stop being such a pushover. A wimp. I need to stop being such a ‘nice’ guy…and start swinging an elbow or two. I’m angry, but its all wrong. I need to spread it out a little more evenly…and not bottle it up, only to unleash in a rush of fire and venom. But I never feel better afterwards. Just guilty. Angry at myself. And the cycle starts all over again. Either I’m too nice…or a jerk. I need to find the middle. The one every other guy seems to reside in. It’s a big fucking middle…yet I swing from one side to the other…like some emotional Tarzan. I need to be a man is what they're all saying...even if they don't. I can be man...but I don't think I'll like me.
Because there IS something wrong with me. I AM different. I know we’re all different…but I’m DIFFERENT different. Where’s my tribe? Where are my people? Or am I a one off? A failed prototype…destined to live out his existence on the fringe? A ghost in the distance. A rumour. An island. A little bit ugly, my aura can fill a room...but its got edges and breaks easily.
I can connect. I do. And its not all fake. And that’s what makes me think that I have a shot. But then it all falls down again. And it starts to feel hollow and damp and cold. And I’m left trying to shake it off…shivering. Involuntary convulsions in angry chains. And it wears me out.
Now worn out, can I put it all back together again?
posted by neil at 1:49 AM
2 Comments:
Sadly, too many women choose wastrels, peter-pans, narcissists etc.
Using an economy of sentiment Poet Thomas Lux speaks for many parents who have raised a beloved daughter only to see their precious child and all their hopes for her dissolved as she becomes enmeshed and absorbed by a creature previously quite unimaginable to them.
Take heart, eventually the man-child/momma's boy wears thin.
A Little Tooth.
Thomas Lux
Your baby grows a tooth, then two,
and four, and five, then she wants some meat
directly from the bone. It's all
over: she'll learn some words, she'll fall
in love with cretins, dolts, a sweet
talker on his way to jail. And you,
your wife, get old, flyblown, and rue
nothing. You did, you loved, your feet
are sore. It's dusk. Your daughter's tall.
Thomas Lux
Thank you Anonymous. I've still got a little growing up to do, but I'm hopeful someday a great girl will see me and not pass.
Great little poem.
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